The moment passed because my aunt called everyone over for photographs.
Still, I noticed Lucas watching his mother instead of the camera.
Brenda’s smile held, static and brittle.
Brenda had been commenting on my appearance since our engagement.
She disliked my hair short, then called it unkempt when I grew it long. She thought my wedding dress was too plain. She once asked whether I intended to “settle into marriage” after I ordered cheesecake.
Pregnancy sharpened her interest.
At 16 weeks, she warned me not to use the baby as an excuse.
At 22 weeks, she studied my dinner plate and said, “Remember, the baby is small.”
At 16 weeks, she warned me not to use the baby as an excuse.
At my last prenatal appointment, my doctor had looked over my chart and smiled.
“Your weight gain is right where it should be, Amy.”
I almost asked her to write it on official letterhead.
Instead, I went home and tucked the reassurance away like something fragile.
I had decided not to fight Brenda at the shower.
The baby had taken too much from fear already.
“Your weight gain is right where it should be, Amy.”
I wanted one afternoon untouched by it.
For a while, I got my wish.
We played games and guessed the baby’s birthday. Lucas lost a contest involving diaper pins because he ignored the instructions, then accused the other men of corruption.
We opened gifts beneath the trees.
Tiny pajamas, board books, and a knitted yellow blanket made the baby feel closer.
For a while, I got my wish.
At one point, I caught Mom carrying a small wooden box from the house to the gift table. It was made from cedar and tied with a cream ribbon.
“What’s that, Mom?”
She slid it between two wrapped packages.
“Later.”
“Is it for me?”
“No.”
“The baby?”
“You’ll see.”
“What’s that, Mom?”
Before I could ask what that meant, Brenda appeared beside the dessert table holding a plate. She looked at the slice of lemon cake in my hand.
“You know, shower cake still counts.”
Lucas stepped between us and reached for my plate.
For a second, Brenda looked pleased.
Then he took a bite and handed it back to me.
“It’s excellent,” he said.
“You know, shower cake still counts.”
My cousin laughed into her napkin.
Brenda walked away without touching her own dessert.
I should have known she was not finished.
***
The sun had started lowering when Mom clinked a spoon against her glass. The children settled on blankets. Guests turned their chairs toward the patio.
“I thought we’d end with a few words from anyone who wants to share something for Amy, Lucas, and the baby.”
I should have known she was not finished.
Brenda stood before my mother finished the sentence.
“I’ll begin.”
Her chair scraped across the stone.
Lucas looked at me. I saw the question in his face.
Should I stop her?
I shook my head once.
Should I stop her?
Brenda lifted her glass and moved to the center of the patio.
“First, a toast to my grandchild.”
Everyone raised their drinks.
“May this baby inherit my son’s intelligence, his good sense, and, with any luck, his metabolism.”
A few people shifted in their seats.
